


the obscure-word dictionary of found family.

by rockygetsrolling



Series: to hold the words in your scarred, battered palms. [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Batman's 80-Year Anniversary, Gen, In Which The Author Uses Obscure Words To Describe Her Intense Emotions About Fictional Characters, Poetry, birthday gift, first-person pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 20:04:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockygetsrolling/pseuds/rockygetsrolling
Summary: Thirteen words that describe Bruce Wayne's journey.





	the obscure-word dictionary of found family.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [audreycritter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/gifts).

> for 80 years of batman adventures (BAM POW ZING), and also for the amazing miss audreycritter's birthday!!

**part i. thantophobia**  
_(n.) the fear of losing someone you love._

Since he had been a child,  
A child who hugged the shadows against his body   
And made friends with his home’s groaning silence,  
Bruce had been afraid  
Of loss.

Every child is.  
But his terror was inordinate  
In that he would wake up screaming,  
Dreaming of the world stealing his mother, his fathers,  
Away,  
Over and over again.

A psychologist gently diagnosed him   
With a phobia of loss,  
And his guardians did everything in their power to accomodate this fear,  
To ease it,   
To understand the world as he saw it  
And adapt accordingly.

The boy was so loved.

And yet his fears were never allayed.

If anything,  
They were strengthened.

First by two bullets  
Punching bloody holes into the bodies of those he loved the most,  
Second  
By everything else.

**part ii. eccedentesiast**  
_(n.) someone who hides pain behind a smile._

He was Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor.

He flirted with every model he came in sight of  
\--that’s what the papers said, anyway--  
And indulged himself in whatever he pleased.  
He took joyrides down crowded Gotham streets,  
Roared with alcoholic laughter at parties,  
And sang drunkenly in the dead of night on abandoned street corners.

No one wanted to interfere   
Before his inevitable self-destruction.  
Instead,  
They waited.  
They waited to laugh,  
To whisper,   
To point fingers,   
To sneer at his back as he walked by  
Without a stray camera pinning them as a spoilsport.

The day never came,  
Because Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor began to love.  
First his city,  
Then his friends (with me among them),  
Then his children.

Ah, yes.

More on that soon.

**part iii. drapetomania**  
_(n.) an overwhelming urge to run away._

There are so many days,  
Even now,  
When he wants to tear away from all he knows  
And just run.

Not to anywhere.  
He just wants to get away.

Back then, he knew why.  
Back then,  
He was filled with sorrow  
And agony  
And a deep-set feeling of guilt,  
Because all he had to do was wait two more minutes.   
Back then,  
He would have done anything to vanish forever,  
And he tried.

(He has a long, pale line on his left wrist  
To remind him of that fact.  
He hates that scar   
More than any other  
That marrs his shattered skin.)

Now,  
The very last thing he wants to do  
Is vanish  
Because he has so much to live for.

So why,  
On some mornings,  
Does he still want to run away?

**part iv. alexithymia**  
_(n.) difficulty describing or expressing feelings to other people._

He was never good at feelings-talk.  
He sucks at it,  
And he knows it.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t try.

His way of showing his feelings  
Is, in reality,  
Not that hard to translate.

Get him to talk about something he loves  
\--his kids, science, old literature, his kids, helping his city, his kids--  
And he’ll care about you forever.  
Maybe not the way he does with other people,  
But when that subject comes up again,  
In the back of his mind he’ll think of you. 

Give his cowl a pat on a darker night  
\--I know, I’ve tried it myself--  
And he might give you the edge of a smile.

Leave a thermos of coffee or soup on a rooftop  
Or a fire escape,  
Or a porch,  
And he’ll do his best to leave a thank-you note behind.

Let him be with you  
In the silence and shadows of wherever you are  
And he’ll love you forever.

**part v. scintilla**  
_(n.) a tiny, bright flash or spark; a small thing; a barely-visible trace._

It was Robin that set him free.

Batman by himself was a force to be reckoned with.  
He was, and still is,  
More than enough to strike fear  
Into evil, unkind hearts.  
Sometimes, he can even do it to me.

But Batman by himself was also   
Undeniably  
Colorless.  
I mean that both literally and figuratively.  
And without color,  
It’s hard for anything to thrive.

Robin was,  
And still is,  
His color, his light, his freedom.

Robin set all of Gotham on a pedestal.

Robin reminds us that love,  
Light,  
Color,  
Can survive in a whirlpool of their opposites.

**part vi. numinous**   
_(adj.) describing an experience that makes you fearful yet fascinated, awed yet attracted; the personal, powerful feeling of being both overwhelmed and inspired._

The first time I ever let the Batsignal fly,  
I felt tears sting my eyes,  
And it wasn’t because of the bitter December wind.

Being a witness to something  
As utterly breathtaking as it was  
\--a halo of light outlining Gotham’s avenging angel--  
Was more religious than anything I had ever heard or seen in a place of worship.

I loved the feeling.

I still do.

And if throwing it is a piece of euphoria,  
Then seeing the man it calls  
Is like seeing heaven,  
Or sometimes hell,  
Open up.

And if seeing him is like entering a divine realm,  
Seeing who he is behind the mask   
Is like staring into the face of an angel.

He might be a bitch sometimes,  
But he’s our angel.

**part vii. metanoia**  
_(n.) the journey of changing one’s mind, heart, self, or way of life._

He often tells me that,  
When he was younger,  
He never really knew what he wanted to be.  
Most days he thought he wanted to be like his father,  
A doctor,  
Or his mother,  
A humanitarian.

Some days,  
He would pray to save the world.

He didn’t care how.

Some days,  
He would pray that the world would end.

He didn’t care how.

Then he came back,  
Escaped those officers  
\--both of whom were under my command at the time--  
And made a solemn promise in the night-lit room  
Facing his father’s cold-eyed bust.

And he spread his wings.

**part viii. elysian**  
_(adj.) beautiful or creative; divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect._

Bruce is a creator.

Not necessarily of art  
Or great writings of epic.

But he creates.

He is an artist of love,  
Of life.  
He breeds new plants,  
Ones that mimic Mother Nature  
And yet interact as a whole seperate unit.  
He cares for people with a tenderness  
That some call weak,  
But I call the strongest feat of mankind.

He has built a life,   
A family,  
A home.  
It is not perfect  
\--nothing in life is--  
But it is wonderful and beautiful  
And so unique  
That it takes my breath away.

Bruce is a creator.

His magnum opus lives, breathes, and fights with him.

I am honored to be a part of it.

**part ix. atelophobia**  
_(n.) the fear of imperfection; the fear of never being good enough._

How many times has he broken down?  
The number has to be in the hundreds, honestly.

Our lives as heroes are,   
By principle,  
Not easy.  
Bruce is a fighter,  
And therein lies the greatest danger.

The amount of times   
He’s shown up on my doorstep  
With a new scar or set of bruises  
And a splintered look in his eye  
Is immesurable.

He is so afraid,  
Always.

I am, too.

Both of our fears have been fulfilled.  
We have both failed,   
So many times  
It aches,  
It hurts to breathe.

But we have each other.  
Against the dark inside us,  
We have each other.

**part x. saudade**   
_(n.) a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant, or that has been loved and then lost; “the love that remains.”_

I have rarely longed for the past.

The past is a place of pain  
For all of us.  
Some of us have literally died,  
Others have been shifted,  
Changed,  
Broken  
And repaired.

We have loved  
And been heartbroken.  
And we loved again.

The only thing of the past  
That any of us long for  
Is when times were simple  
And love was simple.

And maybe,   
In his secret heart,  
He wishes his parents were here to see   
The beauty that his life has become.

**part xi. quartervois**  
_(n.) a crossroads; a critical decision or turning point in one’s life._

This street is where our story begins.

Yeah,   
Sometimes I can be selfish like that  
And call it our story.

I’ve been here just as long as him,  
Maybe a little longer if we’re feeling technically generous.  
This street is where I decided to be a hero;  
This street is where his path to becoming a hero began.

I loved him as a brother then,   
And I love him as a brother now.

This is our devil’s crossroads;  
This is where sin and darkness  
Gave us our superpowers.

**part xii. querencia**   
_(n.) a place from which one’s strength is drawn, where one feels at home; the place where you are your most authentic self._

Some nights,   
When Bruce can’t walk  
\--or won’t walk, because Dev gave him shit for trying with stitched-up legs--  
I stay beside him,  
Sometimes with my guitar,  
Sometimes with just myself.  
Often one of his kids will join us,  
And we’ll talk and sing for hours. 

Bruce is not invicible.

None of us are.

We are strong because we have each other.  
We draw our power from our lives,  
Because we know   
Nothing is stronger  
Than love.

We are made of steel  
And darkness  
And thorned crowns  
And bright blue roses.

And we aren’t going anywhere.

**part xiii. meliorism**  
_(n.) the belief that the world gets better; the belief that humans can improve the world._

Everything has changed.

Gotham still rumbles with fury,  
Still seethes with darkness and rage.   
Gotham is a warzone of crime and misplaced punishment,

But we push on.

We strike hard,  
We reach out a hand,  
And we learn.

Over and over again, we learn.

We learn to love,  
To forgive,  
To heal,  
To help,   
And to believe.

We learn to believe that the world can be better.

So whether we’re spreading our wings,  
Working ground control,   
Or somewhere in between,  
We are part of something better.

So when my brother the knight comes home,  
Covered in blood and a pained smile   
And a whisper on his lips that says  
“I did it,”  
I am always caught between  
Laughter  
And   
Tears.

The world is changing. 

A new age dawned decades ago.

Now,  
We are  
Coming   
Home.


End file.
